"Your being sad, George, would not increase my cheerfulness. The quiet serenity of the hour has operated upon me like a healing balm. I can smile at my superstitious fears, now that the dark cloud is clearing from my mind."
Thus we rode on, chatting with the familiarity of long-tried friendship, discussing our past trials, present feelings, and future prospects, until the moon rose brightly on our path; and we pushed our horses to a quicker pace, in order to reach the city before midnight.
The road we were travelling had been cut through a steep hill. The banks on either side were very high, and crowned with plantations of pine and fir, which cast into deep shadow the space between. The hill was terminated by a large deep gravel pit, through the centre of which our path lay; and the opposite rise of the hill, which was destitute of trees, lay gleaming brightly in the moonshine.
As we gained the wood-crowned height, we perceived a horseman slowly riding down the steep before us. His figure was so blended with the dark shadows of the descending road, that the clicking of his horse's hoofs, and the moving mass of deeper shade alone proclaimed his proximity.
"This is a gloomy spot, George. I wish we were fairly out of it."
"Afraid, Geoffrey—and two to one?"
"No, not exactly afraid; but this spot would be lonely at noonday. Look—look! George, what makes that man so suddenly check his horse as he gains the centre of the pit and emerges into the moonlight?"
"Silence!" cried George. "That was the report of a pistol. Follow me!"
We spurred our horses to full speed and galloped down the hill.
The robbers, if indeed any were near, had disappeared, and we found the man whom we had previously observed, rolling on the ground in great agony, and weltering in blood.